


First Tour

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Sings, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Singer John, Singer John Watson, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 12:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11357589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John finally shows Sherlock where he's been spending his Wednesday nights - and it reveals a whole different side to him that Sherlock had never deduced.





	First Tour

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just started writing this when my Facebook group started a thread about songfics and what made them good or bad. Terrible timing as I agonised over every line! Eventually I didn't read most of the thread lest this never get published in my indecision. So here it is, my songfic, in all its glory. <3
> 
> Thanks to lonewarg and echosilverwolf for reading this and soothing my anxious ego.

Sherlock tilted his head, squinting at John. “You’ve been doing something different.” It was a statement, yet the lack of specificity told John that Sherlock had no idea what it was. He clearly expected John to supply the details.

“Yes, I have.” John answered, taking his tea upstairs and closing the door. Ten minutes later, he clattered down the stairs as he had done for the last four Wednesdays at 7.50pm, calling, “Back later!” as he always did.

 +++

Sherlock had no idea where John was going, and it was driving him mad. He knew John was going somewhere indoors, with beer of a reasonable quality and smokers hanging around outside, but there were no further clues - John had taken pains to keep his destination a secret since the tracking device had blown up John’s phone. He’d pre-empted any further efforts, expressly forbidding the detective from following him, having him followed, planting another tracking device on (or in) him, paying off his cabbie, planting his _own_ cabbie or doing anything else to deduce where John was spending his Wednesday evenings.

“This is mine, Sherlock, my own thing,” John had said, and there was something in his voice that made Sherlock take note. “It’s not something I’m going to share, and you need to respect that.” John had looked Sherlock in the eye then, a hard, determined stare. “If you do any of those things to find out where I’m going or what I’m doing, I will move out and we will have no further contact, you understand?”

Sherlock nodded. John stood there for a moment, before checking his watch and preparing to go out. That had been the second Wednesday, after John endured a week of snide comments, surreptitious checking of his clothes and shoes, and sullen silences. The final straw was when Sherlock tried to hack John’s phone, attempting to track the mobile phone as it moved through the city last Wednesday evening.

Thinking hard, Sherlock barely noticed the passing of time. John considered most of the usual channels of enquiry (read: spying) that Sherlock would employ, and neatly covered any others by adding ‘or do anything else’ at the end of his list of forbidden actions. As much as Sherlock tried to justify his clever circumventing of John’s rules, he knew John would not make an idle threat. John would see through his ruse to the intent behind it and the worst would happen – he would be disappointed in Sherlock, and he would leave.

Punching the chair, Sherlock stood, pacing the room, staring at Billy the skull on every return path to the fireplace. The problem was he saw John as an extension of himself, and the idea of John having secrets from him was ludicrous. He ignored the secrets he himself kept from John, and there were many; the biggest one was a secret from nobody, he suspected, except John. The sideways glances and sniggers when he and John entered a crime scene, the motherly fawning by Mrs Hudson and the casual assumption from all other parties that he and John were a couple meant that it was obvious to all in the world – except Captain John Hamish Watson – that Sherlock was irretrievably in love with him.

Having recognised at last the emotion that had plagued him, Sherlock promptly did what he always did with an unfamiliar emotion, ignoring it and hoping it would go away. He was surprised and disappointed when this failed – surely love was like a plant – fail to feed it and it died? His analogy was poor, and he decided that ‘love is like addiction – it grows stronger unless acknowledged’ was a more accurate phrase. The less he saw John, the more he thought about him; the less he touched John, the more he craved the incidental contact that happened so naturally in their shared life. Less shared than he’d thought, now. The idea that John would want something separate from Sherlock was unexpectedly painful, and something else too – sad. It made Sherlock sad to think that there was something he could not provide, some need of John’s that he was not meeting. Sadness was familiar to Sherlock, dredging up old memories. He had to work as hard to keep the sadness at bay as the love.

John had noticed the change, of that Sherlock was certain; the little glances over his laptop were more regular and always accompanied by a statistically deeper frown. Sometimes John even opened his mouth as though to speak, then thought better of it. On these occasions Sherlock held his breath, a voice in his head whispering that perhaps, just perhaps, John’s open mouth would blurt the same message as Sherlock’s heart beat 4800 times per hour, every hour of the day and night – _I love you_. It never did, and the pang of regret stung long after John’s eyes returned to his laptop screen.

 +++

“Have you even moved since I’ve been gone?” John’s voice broke into his mind palace as he dropped into his chair opposite Sherlock. He grunted in reply, the swift glance he allowed himself to trail down John’s body telling him a frustratingly generic story. Not a date, but somewhere nicer than a pub; the cigarettes again, as well as the beer; John was relaxed, but it was only partly due to the beer he’d consumed. He was always in a better mood when he came home on a Wednesday night; it was some kind of social event, then.

“Good night?” Sherlock asked grudgingly, knowing John would relish giving him no information at all.

“Yes, thanks.” came the predictably bland reply.

“You look relaxed.”

“Spending time with people who ask me things instead of ordering me around does have that effect.” John’s voice had an unusual tone, and Sherlock didn’t know how to reply. So he didn’t. A silence settled over them, a shade too heavy to be truly comfortable, but close enough for a pair with so many secrets, Sherlock grumped to himself. John’s words rang in his ears. _People who ask me things…_ As Sherlock watched John slouch comfortably in his chair, a strange compulsion drove him to speak.

“John…”

“Mmmm?”

“Will you tell me where you go on a Wednesday night?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and undemanding.

Without opening his eyes, John smiled. “I was wondering how long it would take you to just ask.” He replied. “I’ll do one better than that. I’ll show you.” He tilted his head up, eyes open, looking at Sherlock, eyes unreadable. “Next Wednesday. Be ready.” With that, he heaved himself up and out of his chair, weaving a crooked path to the staircase. “Night, Sherlock.”

 +++

The following week held an undercurrent of nerves. Sherlock knew he was on edge waiting for Wednesday night. Was that what was affecting John, too? Sherlock could practically see the anxiety coming off him sometimes, as he tapped nervous fingers on the arm of his chair or his eyes darted around the room, judging escape routes. Sherlock wondered what it could be that would make John so nervous. Something about sex? That would make John relaxed, but Sherlock would have noted the scent of another person and the change in his masturbation schedule if that was the case. It was something that John had tried to keep from Sherlock, though now he was willing to show him. Embarrassing, then. A support group of some kind? They could meet in a bar…Sherlock stopped before he got any further. John would be drunker, less relaxed and less open upon his return, if that was the case. He sighed. It would be easier for him to just wait and see.

 +++

As they walked past the evidence of a smoker’s spot outside the pub, Sherlock knew this was the place. The scent of beer was strong, and John greeted the bartender like an old friend, ignoring the pointedly raised eyebrow. He and Sherlock sat with their pints, John nodding greetings at many of the other patrons as the bar slowly filled up.

“Hey John, the usual tonight?” A tall man, dressed in black and sporting a set of killer auburn sideburns, approached John.

“Hi Abe, this is Sherlock.” Sherlock smiled perfunctorily at the man, concentrating on his words to John, barely noticing the double take Abe gave Sherlock. _Usual what?_

“Yeah. Sort of. Here’s the set.” He handed a sheaf of papers to Abe, who flicked through then nodded approvingly, eyes darting to Sherlock and back to John. He offered his fist to John, who bumped it with his own. Sherlock looked on in amazement.

“John?” He asked uncertainly.

“When we first met, you asked me, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’” John began. Sherlock nodded. “I answered Afghanistan automatically, and it was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change as John fiddled with the edge of the bar runner. “My first tour of the Middle East was a few years before…”

John was cut off there, Abe interrupting him with a, “John Watson! Let’s get this party started!”

John drained his pint and stood lifting his eyes awkwardly to Sherlock. “You’ll see, then.” He turned and walked to the small stage, before settling himself on the stool. He leaned over, adjusting the microphone and speaking into it as he selected a guitar from the range behind him.

“Hi, I’m John.” He said easily, running his fingers nervously up the neck of the guitar. “I’ll be starting the evening off. Setting the tone, if you like. Tonight’s all about the angst, people, so dig deep and find your inner pain.” There was a ripple of laughter at the dry tone with which John had delivered this last comment. “I’m going for an unrequited kind of vibe. “ John added, looking directly at Sherlock as he spoke.

Sherlock was still gobsmacked – how had he never known John could play the guitar? And not just play, but _play_ , he amended, as John started picking out a melody, something minor and soulful. As the sombre melody repeated, the music swirled around him, filling him with an uncomfortable emotion. Something linked to how he felt about John. Startled at this, and completely unprepared to deal with such a reaction in a public place, Sherlock instead addressed the other item that had temporarily stunned him – John’s last comment. ‘Unrequited’ was a word inexorably linked with ‘love’, and John had looked right at Sherlock. Was he saying…

John started singing, and Sherlock received yet another severe shock. John was good. Really good. His voice was plaintive as he sang. The lyrics came easily to him, and Sherlock watched his eyes drift closed as he sang of loneliness and pain, being misunderstood but dreaming of more. Chills skidded down Sherlock’s spine, whether from the timbre of John’s voice or the words which sounded so personal, he wasn’t sure. Sherlock could feel that his mouth was slightly open, watching the quiet confidence of John, his John, on stage, singing and playing the guitar like a master. He gripped the edge of his barstool, vaguely aware of the cool metal biting into his fingers. The song grew, other instruments coming in to support John; a voice added harmony, another layer to the sad, sad song. Sherlock’s mind palace took the words swirling around him and kept them safe so Sherlock could consider them further tomorrow.

John finished, then immediately began another without looking at Sherlock. This one was a little lighter, the guitar introduction less sombre, and the first line caught Sherlock’s attention. “ _Step outside the sea, they don’t know you like I do,”_ John’s eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock’s in the brief break, holding the gaze before repeating the lyric, _“they don’t know you like I do”_.

That was the moment that Sherlock knew.

John was singing to him. To _him._ The words kept coming, and Sherlock paid more attention to the lyrics this time, not just locking them in his mind palace for later. Key words danced around him, playing in his peripheral vision as his eyes remained locked on John’s. It was as if John had crawled into his heart and understood what he found there, translating it perfectly into this quiet song. It was a song of encouragement; John’s voice was smooth in Sherlock’s ear, asking him to understand, to accept John’s overture, somehow. John knew Sherlock well, knew the barriers he’d carefully erected over the years, yet now he was asking Sherlock to bring them down, to trust him with the most fragile part of himself.

Sherlock swallowed hard. If – _if_ – he understood John’s message correctly, John was saying he wanted more from their friendship. Could it really be that…Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. He didn’t _know_. Did John want him to profess his love? Was it love? Despite his inexperience, he thought it was. Tell John, though? How could he do that? The words would never fit right, he would sound gauche and awkward, and John would laugh and walk away…

The look of helplessness must have crossed his face as the final chord faded away, replaced by applause. John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes and smiled a little, nodding his head encouragingly. A brief pause, and Sherlock nodded back questioningly. John’s smile broadened, relief and affection pooling in his eyes.

“This is the last in my set,” he said, leaning into the microphone. “It’s more upbeat than the others, and hopefully the message is clearer this time.” He hadn’t pulled his eyes away from Sherlock as he spoke, and several patrons craned their necks to see where he was looking, whispering amongst themselves when they spotted Sherlock, now gripping the bar and leaning so far forward he was in danger of slipping off his bar stool.

“This is ‘ _More than Words_ ’”. John announced. Another man had come forward to sit by John, guitar in hand, and he started playing this time, a more confident melody, though it was still quiet and simple. No wonder John felt more relaxed after an evening here, a part of Sherlock’s brain noted. As people recognised it, several looked over at Sherlock to gauge his reaction. He’d never heard it before, of course; some variation of popular music, he assumed.

John started, and this time, the first line hit him right in the heart. “ _Saying I love you, is not the words I want to hear from you,”_ John crooned. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, but before he had a chance to gasp his hurt and shock, the next words he heard wiped it all away. “ _More than words, is all you have to do to make it real.”_

He listened, entranced, as John gently encouraged Sherlock to show what he felt. It was the perfect song, Sherlock thought, wondering if John had written it for him. Was he so transparent? Or perhaps John had just taken the time to know him so well.

He flushed as he realised people were looking at him, then at John, whose colour was also heightened – he’d noticed the audience put two and two together. As John played, his eyes, which had been moving around but avoiding Sherlock, finally risked a glance over. The smile that Sherlock gave him almost hurt his face with its breadth. It was an automatic reaction rather than a calculated move, but it was honest and real and, he thought, exactly what John was encouraging him to do. To respond without hesitating. To allow his heart to shine for John, even across this space, with all these people bearing witness to his vulnerability.

An instrumental break, and John whispered into the ear of the other guitarist, who grinned and nodded, even as he kept playing. John picked up the cordless microphone and stood up, negotiating the leads on the stage before beginning the next verse as he stepped off the stage. It was the most unambiguous yet – almost pleading with Sherlock to do the things he’d so often dreamt of – reach out and touch, to pull John in and hold him, feeling their bodies press together, expressing his love with his hands rather than words.

As John sang, his eyes flicked between his path, navigating through people and tables, and Sherlock, fidgeting nervously now, aware of the people watching them as John sang to him without pretence. That one smile Sherlock had given John had lit up the Army man, who was now serenading him in a slightly sticky bar in front of a group of strangers. Sherlock was gobsmacked – now that it was happening, there was no going back. His heart was beating fast, breath coming shallower – but this panic was not ‘I have to get out of here’ panic, it felt different. It was new. The best Sherlock could come up with at short notice was, ‘If you don’t come here and kiss me now I might die’ panic, which was an alarming sensation in itself.

A nervous smile fluttered over his lips as John reached him, holding out his hand as he continued to sing. Sherlock raised his own trembling hand, allowing John to interlace their fingers. John turned off the microphone and gave it to the nearest person, not sparing them a glance as he stepped familiarly close to Sherlock. The bar stool on which Sherlock sat helped to negate the height difference so his head was only slightly above John’s.

“I didn’t know you could sing.” Sherlock said as quietly as possible, excruciatingly aware of the audience now ignoring the guitarist, who had repeated John’s verse before continuing with the song.

John shrugged, a smile dancing over his lips. “I was in a band in medical school. We toured war zones to play for the troops. That’s why I decided to join the Army, use my medical degree for something more exciting than GP work.”

“So Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was your…”

“Second tour. Yes. Well, sort of.” John looked fondly at Sherlock, tucking an errant curl behind his ear. The intimate action sent a shiver through Sherlock.

They stood grinning at each other until someone from the audience shouted, “Will you kiss him already, for God’s sake, John!”

The whole bar broke up at this, even John chuckling at the joke. Sherlock gulped. His hand, still held in John’s, squeezed, and John met his eyes, giving up on locating the wag who’d call out.

John squeezed back reassuringly. “May I?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, his breath hitching as John leaned in, his body brushing Sherlock’s, lips sure and warm and right. For a moment they kissed gently, before Sherlock was wrapping his free arm around John, pulling him closer. He stood up without breaking the kiss, swaying their bodies together slowly to the beat of the music. The sound of enthusiastic cheering faded out as lips explored, sliding and caressing again and again. Sherlock reeled at the data of scent and warmth and wet and smooth and a little whining noise that he was pretty sure was John, even with all the ambient noise…

When they finally separated, a long gradual process, Sherlock had no idea how long they’d been there for. A blonde woman was singing now, something sad, but Sherlock wasn’t focussed on her. John had given him the words for when he couldn’t say the words.

“More than words.” He whispered, lowering his mouth to John’s ear to be heard over the blonde.

Sherlock felt John stiffen, then melt into him pressing kisses along his cheek until an unsteady, breathy voice in Sherlock’s ear repeated, “Oh, Sherlock. More than words.”

**Author's Note:**

> Song 1 Behind Blue Eyes (originally by The Who, performed [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjkBPSzK3nc) by Limp Bizkit)  
> Song 2 Without Words (performed [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBuo22e2mGs) by Ray Lamontagne)  
> Song 3 More Than Words (performed [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrIiLvg58SY) by extreme)


End file.
